Folks come here poor and they go
away rich. Young women come here without a friend in the world, and the
next thing that happens is a gentleman steps up to 'em and says, "If
you'll take me for your pardner for life, I'll give you a good home and
love you ever so much besides"; and off goes my young lady-boarder into a
fine three-story house, as grand as the governor's wife, with everything
to make her comfortable, and a husband to care for her into the bargain.
That's the way it is with the young ladies that comes to board with me,
ever since the gentleman that wrote the first book that advertised my
establishment (and never charged me a cent for it neither) merried the
Schoolma'am. And I think but that's between you and me--that it 's going
to be the same thing right over again between that young gentleman and
this young girl here--if she doos n't kill herself with writing for them
news papers,--it 's too bad they don't pay her more for writing her
stories, for I read one of 'em that made me cry so the Doctor--my Doctor
Benjamin--said, "Ma, what makes your eyes look so?" and wanted to rig a
machine up and look at 'em, but I told him what the matter was, and that
he needn't fix up his peeking contrivances on my account,--anyhow she's a
nice young woman as ever lived, and as industrious with that pen of hers
as if she was at work with a sewing-machine,--and there ain't much
difference, for that matter, between sewing on shirts and writing on
stories,--one way you work with your foot, and the other way you work
with your fingers, but I rather guess there's more headache in the
stories than there is in the stitches, because you don't have to think
quite so hard while your foot's going as you do when your fingers is at
work, scratch, scratch, scratch, scribble, scribble, scribble.
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